


appelle-moi (call me)

by orphan_account



Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [19]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Bittersweet, Bottom Armie Hammer, Dom Timothée Chalamet, Drama, Goodbye Sex, Heavy Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Insecure Timothèe Chalamet, Judaism, LATER, M/M, Prayer, Sad Timothée Chalamet, Shabbat | Sabbath | Sabt, Spit As Lube, until we meet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28803378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Timmy and Armie part ways.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087184
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	appelle-moi (call me)

“Timmy? Timmy, where are you?”

Timothée frowned and scrunched his face up in a grimace when the overhead light in the living room was turned on. “Here I am. Armie? What time is it? You said you would be here. You said -”

“No, Timmy. I said I’d see you again ‘tomorrow night.’ Well, tomorrow is today, and today is yesterday. You were gone for 11 hours. I hope you didn’t expect me to sit around waiting for you all day?”

“Um, yeah, I kind of did.” Timothée ducked his head to look at the floor as his face flushed.

When he had arrived home to the empty townhouse, it being Shabbat, he had found a Bic lighter in the bathroom and lit candles. He had prayed, but it was without hope or faith. It had been with rage, depression and despair, and so he doubted that his prayers would be answered.

He had opened the French windows in the living room and sung at the top of his lungs. _L’chah dodi_ , the _Barchu_ , _Mi Chamocha_ , and _Hashkiveinu_. The few songs he had learned by rote from Hebrew School and could still recite word for word. If God existed, Timothée imagined that he was sitting way up on his throne in heaven, plugging his ears and cringing as he sang.

Timothée liked to think that maybe God remembered him from childhood, from his bar mitzvah in 2009 when he had stood before the congregation and chanted lines of memorized Hebrew into the microphone. Afterward he had been declared a man, and been given money and gift cards before having a party with his close friends and family where he danced the Electric Slide.

He had knelt for an hour or so in front of the Morley coffee table as a makeshift altar with his head bent over folded hands in a strange, syncretic bastardization of the _tefillot_ he had seen Bubbe do on special occasions, and the long-winded, extemporaneous prayers he had seen his Grand-père recite before meals and in church.

Timothée felt as if there was a black hole in his chest, a place where even air could not come in. He pleaded with a god he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in, an unintelligible prayer in Hebrew and French and English that had no words of worship or awe. His prayer was a selfish one, borne of frantic anxiety and insecurity. It beat in his heart like a drum: _please make Armie come back, Adonai, s’il-vous-plait!_

He had paused in the middle of praying only when he could no longer say the words. The fear was a knife, cutting into his mind repeatedly. _Please don’t let him leave me!_

He didn’t get an answer. He sat on the floor, praying over and over until he drifted off to sleep. And then, almost miraculously, the door opened, and Armie came back, asking him where he was.

Timothée stood up unsteadily and stared at Armie like a besotted fool. He loved his face, his smooth hard jaw and long eyelashes that brushed down over his cheeks. His mouth was hard and unsmiling. He merely looked at him.

Timothée closed his eyes and opened them again, and Armie was still there. He walked over to him, and his knees gave out beneath him. The strangled noise that came from his throat had no meaning. He cried Armie’s name, gasped, and sobbed for breath as he wrapped his arms around Armie’s legs.

“I’m s-sorry. I should’ve known you’d get b-bored here. Of c-course you don’t have to wait around for me all d-day. S-sorry Armie.”

“Timmy…” Armie knelt to catch his shoulders and pull him up to face him. Timothée wailed and pressed his face to Armie’s chest. “I thought you were gone. I thought you left me. Armie…”

He cupped his face. Timothée looked up at him, and the dam burst. He grabbed Armie’s sleeve and pressed his face into the crook of his shoulder, sobbing so violently that he could hardly breathe. He cried until he was exhausted, until he hung limply against Armie as he kissed his face, shoulders, and arms.

“Timmy,” he said stiffly. “I went into the city to take care of some business. I’m...leaving tomorrow, going back to George Town.”

Timothée scoffed, too tired to cry. He caught and held his hand weakly. “You’re really gonna leave me here? That’s pretty fucking cruel.”

Armie sniffed and his face darkened. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Timmy. If you think about it, it’s kind of an act of mercy. All I seem to do is hurt you. Please don’t be too hard on me, Timmy. I love you more than my own life.”

Timothée dropped his hand. “And yet you’re going to leave me?”

Armie sighed and took a shuddering breath. “I know I should stay. I should be here with you. I want to be with you. I would if I could, Timmy, but I have nothing left. I’m no good for you.”

Timothée paused. He stared up at the ceiling and back down at their feet. He was standing on top of Armie’s bare feet with his own, as he had done the night of their first major fight, as he had also done that summer in Crema, when the pavement and the ground around the villa was too hot for him to stand on.

“If you leave,” he said fiercely. “I’m going with you.”

Armie scoffed and shook his head. “Don’t talk like that, Timmy. Don’t be an idiot. You have a movie shoot to finish.”

“I can tell them to get someone else.”

Armie shook his head. “Seriously, Timmy, stop saying that. You’re Timothée Chalamet. You’re the hottest actor in Hollywood right now.”

“I don’t care. I can tell them to hire another one.”

Armie stared at the floor, not daring to look Timothée in the eye.

“I just want to be with you.” Timothée gulped and sniffled. “I need you. I don’t give a fuck what anyone has to say about it.”

Armie sighed and kissed the top of his head. “Timmy, you can’t come with me. You signed a contract. I know it’s hard, but try not to be a baby.”

Timothée closed his eyes. “ _Je suis bébé_. I am a baby. I’m _**your**_ baby. If that’s the way you feel about it, I won’t let you leave. If I have to, I'll overpower you and tie you down to force you to stay. As you threatened to do to me, once upon a time. I may be small, Armie, but I am strong. I _will_ make you stay, if I have to bind your hands and feet to do it.”

Timothée felt heat in his face and his heart pounded. He opened his eyes and stared into Armie’s, ready to attack him if he tried to leave. Armie gave him such a withering glare that he quivered, but he held his ground, breathing deeply, almost daring him.

Armie was right, he had been hurt a lot by him and shed a lot of tears over him, but he was learning to stand his ground. He wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

Armie dug his fingernails into Timothée’s shoulders, holding him tightly as he kissed his throat. “No, Timmy. I’m not going to drag you down with me.”

“Whatever you say. Wait a minute.” Abruptly, Timothée broke away from him. He walked over to the light switch and turned it off. He smiled mischievously and draped his arms around Armie’s neck, hanging like a deadweight.

Timothée opened his mouth and pulled Armie towards him, ravenous for the feel of him, for his heat and taste and scent. “Too late.” Timothée licked Armie’s chin and upper lip. “How about this? This time, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Stop.” Armie grunted and tried to turn his face away, but his body denied his words. Beneath Armie’s briefs, Timothée could feel his erection.

Armie tugged at Timothée’s shirt and pulled it up over his head. He skimmed his palms up Timothée’s sides, tracing the faint scars as he tickled his ribs. Timothée giggled and snorted.

Armie pulled back from him only to stare at him, his gaze wolfish.

“Damn, that antidepressant is doing its job. Just yesterday you could barely stand it when I touched you.”

“Ha, that’s not quite how it works. I’ve only been on the stuff for a few days, and it takes up to a month for it to get into my system. I guess you could say, given the circumstances, I’m forcing myself a little.”

Timothée spread his legs as he pulled Armie down and rose up over him in a tangle of limbs.

Armie leaned back on his hands and thrust his tongue in Timothée’s mouth. He lifted himself and tried to turn Timothée beneath him, but Timothée growled and locked his hands in his, leaning on him until he gave up and let Timothée push him down.

Armie looked up at Timothée, his chest rising and falling rapidly, darkness and heat and desire at his command.

In one swift move, Timothée took off his boxers and leaned over Armie. The tip of his cock touched the bare skin of Armie’s thigh. Armie shuddered beneath him. While he was still fully clothed, the contact was like an intimate secret between them.

Timothée yanked Armie’s briefs off, so fast that he whimpered. “Timmy,” he murmured. “You left the French doors open. The neighbors will hear.”

Timothée smiled wickedly. “They may hear, but they can’t see. Unless they have a good pair of binoculars and nothing better to do.”

“Ugh. But Timmy -” Armie swallowed, panting.

Timothée’s chest rumbled as he hawked and spat a gooey mass of snot and spit into his palm. He laughed at Armie’s horrified expression as his eyebrows shot up.

“What? Are you so high and mighty that you’re too good for this? Give me a break, Armie. I don’t have anything else, and I figured this would be a little better than just using spit. C’mon, man, I’m about to shove my dick up your ass. I don’t have a condom, so I might get your shit on it. But you’re afraid of using a little loogie lube?”

“Goddammit, Timmy.” Armie snorted with laughter. “You know, you kind of have a point...I guess. When did you become so deviant? What happened to the sweet little nerd I fell in love with?”

Timothée spread Armie’s legs apart and grinned at him. “I think it all started about the time I fell for you. I’m still the same person, Armie. I’ve just...grown a little. Or a lot. Anyway, we’ve done enough talking. If this is the last time I’m gonna get to fuck you for a while, I want to make it memorable.”

He lubed himself and pushed into him. Armie strained, fidgeting in his hold, but Timothée did not hold back. He held Armie pinned between his legs as he thrust into him.

He leaned over Armie, bringing his hands to his throat, brushing his fingertips across his collarbone, and then sinking his nails into him.

Timothée moved his hands down to hold Armie’s hips as he thrust upward, moving in a way that made Armie gasp and groan. Timothée licked his lips and whimpered as he rode him, wrapping his legs around Armie’s waist to force himself deeper, so deep that his stomach was saturated as Armie came furiously with a sob of ecstasy.

Timothée groaned and thrust into him again. His pale throat loomed over Armie, the faded bruises from his fingers showing as Timothée had his way with him, a brutal, pleasurable assault against the parquet.

Timothée felt a throbbing climax come over him as he stilled himself, a sound of agony and exhilaration. He jerked and moaned, his teeth bared, and dropped his head to Armie’s shoulder.

Timothée wrapped his arms around Armie. He stayed inside him, as if he could keep him there, and his heart skipped when Armie raised himself up on his elbow. He leaned down and brushed his lips lightly at Timothée’s temple. “Let me up. I need to get busy packing. I have a bus to Boston at 6, and my flight leaves at 10.”

“No!” Timothée whimpered and clung to Armie. His hair tumbled and hid his eyes from view as he lowered his chin. “Please, just stay here with me and hold me until I fall asleep.”

Armie shushed Timothée and gently parted the wisps of baby hair on his forehead. The sight of Timothée’s eyes, wide and shining with tears, broke his heart. Armie gently pulled Timothée out of him and held him close.

Timothée sniffled and kept his eyes cast down as Armie lifted his chin on his thumb.

“Jesus!” He growled. “How am I going to live without you, Timmy?”

Timothée ran his tongue over his upper lip. “It’s not forever. Go, take care of what you need to in the Cayman Islands, and then, when you’re done, come back to me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You will.” Armie smiled and lowered his lips to his, barely touching. “And in the meantime, I’ll text or call or FaceTime you every day. I swear.”

“Armie,” Timothée breathed as he looked up into his cerulean eyes. _“Je t’aime.”_

 _“Je t’aime aussi.”_ Armie tangled his hand in Timothée’s hair and pulled him close.

**Author's Note:**

> These are strange times we're living in, to say the least. Democracy seems to be crumbling, disease has and continues to wreak havoc on the world, and a person's reputation and livelihood, built upon years of work and progress, can be annihilated within a matter of days.
> 
> I well know that the main point of fanfiction is to provide a respite and escape from these daily horrors, but I also know that art imitates life, and there is no way that I can write without it being affected by what's going on.
> 
> I write to vent frustrations and exorcise demons. I have said what I think about the subject, and until there is some form of resolution or further clarification, I cannot and will not write about Armie anymore.
> 
> I wish for peace for him, his family, and the ones who have brought accusations against him.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has read, commented, and/or left kudos on this series. I didn't set out to write, but once I began to it all took on a life of its own.
> 
> Thanks again! Later.


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